Mime Spent Apart

Part 1

Blue was the colour he saw in the mirror, streaked under his eyes like nesting peacocks. He reached into the open makeup jar for more of the decoration and this time streaked it across his mouth. He examined the effect this had on his visage; an ice-cold deranged clown. He could feel the chill radiating from the mirror and nodded in satisfaction - this was the mime he wanted to present to the world, Marcel Marceau be damned. Black did not convey the emptiness in his soul like blue did, blue would be his salvation. People would take him seriously this time around.

His eyes lit on the jar of glitter he stored near his makeup brush and he considered adding a touch to his face to finish off the look. No, he finally decided with a shake of his head, today was not a day to sparkle. He did one final check of the white greasepaint caked on his face and then donned a pair of white cotton gloves. They slid on his hands effortlessly, his fingers slotting into place as if this was his skin that he had removed earlier and finally was replacing. In some ways, it was.

He took a step back from his mirror and examined the full experience of his outfit. The face, he decided, was perfect. He had considered painting on blue tears in the usual tradition, but this was a war. He was crying no tears today; only vigilance would guide his hand. He adjusted the beret on his head to the regulation angle - eighteen degrees - and tugged on his stripy sleeves, making sure they were even on both arms. He briefly considered changing from black and white stripes to blue and white to match his distinctive makeup choices but decided it was probably too much. His slacks and shoes were also regulation black.

What would be a perfect finishing touch though? He searched the room around him and discovered in a corner a blue plastic rose. Perfect. He pushed it into his lapel and gave himself another once-over in the mirror. His mentor would be proud, though would likely tut at the break from tradition in the makeup. No matter. He sighed at the thought of his mentor, likely feeling his way around the invisible glass walls of Paris for euros. He carefully picked up his suitcase, making sure not to disturb the gelignite within, opened the door, walked through it, carefully closed it behind him, then went on to the real door, opened that, and closed it behind him locking it carefully.

--

EMenhaus watched the clouds overhead slowly drift across the giant moon in the sky. The moon was an unearthly yellow colour and the night sky was a deep blue that reminded him of his grandfather's fading journals in their antique leather binding. His Earth grandfather, anyway. Menhaus was certain (at the least 95% sure) that the ones he knew as "Mum" and "Dad" were actually just stand-ins for his real parents out in the stars somewhere. He knew this because his intuition told him so, along with a dream he had where a message was sent to him from the sky. The message itself was lost, but he would never forget the way it was conveyed – a spark detached from the sun, a tiny star, and came down from the sky shooting across his grandparents' backyard and passing through the back door. The door was of the sliding glass variety and it cracked as the bright light vessel passed through it. The light shot around the room then swooped down and flew into the big grandfather clock in the lounge room where it faded.

Menhaus remembered the next time he visited his grandparents, he saw that the sliding door had a big patch in it where there was a crack and a few days after that it had been replaced with a new pane that had a white stripe along it just under eye level. He decided to bring it up with his mum.

"Hey mum?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember when that glass on the door broke?"